Midgets and Mooncalves
by Luan Mao
Summary: All the cool kids are putting up fragments of stories. I'm cool - my mommy told me so - so I'm doing it, too!
1. Hazing (St Trinian's)

What we have here is a failure to communicate. No, that's not right. We're communicating right now, if only one-way. What we have here are pieces of stories, ideas that don't really stand by themselves or which are really short or which I just didn't feel like cleaning up enough to post. Free to a good home and all that.

Disclaimer: As a general thing, I don't own the characters and universes described here. These are fanfiction fragments, after all. If I ever get off my lazy butt and finish my partially-written novellas, I'll make sure to write a couple of fanfics on them, just so I can say I _do_ own the characters. That's for the future, though.

**Hazing**

Universe: St Trinian's (2007 movie)

Rating: T, for nudity and implied violence

...ooo000ooo...

Her first look at St. Trinian's had impressed her. The enormous building loomed in the distance, sat in the middle of hundreds of acres of grounds.

First impressions didn't last. From the severely damaged front lawn to the non-uniform, slatternly uniforms on the students, St. Trinian's appeared to be the bottom rung of the boarding school ladder.

She sat and grieved outside the headmistress's office as her father took time from his busy, busy schedule to finalize arrangements for her schooling. Things were still in disarray after her mother's sudden death barely a week ago. Daddy Dearest, of course, was much too busy and too important to raise her himself, so it was off to school with her. The best she could hope for would still be a huge change from the way she lived and gone to school until now.

St. Trinian's hardly seemed to be the best she could hope for.

The students – sluts or hoodlums, the lot of them – were worse than the school grounds. Hardly any spoke even a single word to her, but they all stared at her. Sized her up. Looked a little too long at the bags which held everything she owned. It set her nerves on edge. She took a moment to check her possessions again. This seemed the sort of place which would have a lot of thieves.

Daddy Dearest finally emerged from the headmistress's office, laughing more than she thought he should, considering his wife of seventeen years was barely in the ground.

And then, with barely more than an exhortation to do the family proud, he was gone and the headmistress was handing her off to some other teacher, a young woman with glazed eyes and who smelled of something aromatic and sweet.

The stoner teacher led her up to the dorm where she'd be staying, then wandered off with no more than a vague wave toward a bed with no linens. Fortunately, or not, the Head Girl led the older girls up in what turned out to be an introduction and hazing session. The hazing wasn't as bad as television had led her to expect, so she dealt with it.

Late in the evening she finally made it to the upper-year showers, to wash off the sweat and the insults which had been written on her face.

When she got out of the water, her towel was gone. Of course. Her view of the school as being filled with thieves and thugs had been right on.

When she saw that her clothes were missing, too, she rolled her eyes. It appeared that the charming young ladies of St Trinian's hadn't finished hazing her. She headed up to the dorm room, not worrying about her wetness or trying to cover her nudity. There were no men in the school at night, she had no reason to be ashamed of her body, and the bitches in the school obviously wanted to make her act like a screaming fool.

When she saw the video camera following her as she walked, she saw red. They'd gone too far.

Finding a push-broom in a cleaning closet, she removed the handle and then snapped it in two. Daddy Dearest had been distantly proud of his athletic daughter, paying for lessons and team memberships without paying attention to the details. He probably didn't even know what eskrima was.

If they were testing her, they were about to learn what she could do.

And if this dump was law of the jungle, dog eat dog, she was going to be the nastiest bitch in the pack.

* * *

**A/N**: Annabelle's reaction to the towel theft near the beginning of the 2007 movie was _pathetic_.


	2. Newlyweds (HP)

**Newlyweds**

Universe: Harry Potter, 4th year

Rating: T

...ooo000ooo...

Gabrielle was crying.

She'd been crying for an hour, since the door had shut behind them.

Harry couldn't blame her. She was scared. She was separated from her family for the first time in her life. She didn't know what was going to happen to her.

Harry couldn't hug her and tell her it would be OK. She was terrified of him. Harry didn't blame her. To be honest, he was a little scared of her, or at least the situation they were in.

He wasn't any happier about their "marriage" than she was. A forced marriage – to an eight-year-old! – had been the last thing on his mind when he walked out to the lake that morning.

He couldn't go over and hug her, but at least he was able to talk to her. Dumbledore might have been a useless bastard all year, but he'd cast a translation spell on Harry this afternoon, after the Delacour parents had been yelling at them both for ten minutes. It was temporary, but Dumbledore had said it would last long enough for the newlyweds to get to know each other. The way things were going, that meant about five years.

"We can make it better, Gabrielle. We can figure out a way to get you back with your family and you not die."

"I want my mother!" She burst into renewed tears.

He'd been trying to console her for a while, once he'd realized she wasn't going to stop crying. He'd run out of things to say. He never was the best at talking to people, and this was too much for him.

Harry was at his wits' end. He didn't want to spend the night with a crying little girl. He didn't want to spend the night alone with a little girl even if she wasn't crying. And he most especially didn't want to be married to a little girl, crying or not.

And why had the adults left them alone, even if it was their "wedding night"? He could believe it of the Hogwarts staff; they had an unbroken record of not seeing, not caring, not bestirring themselves. But what about Gabrielle's parents? They couldn't be happy about their eight-year-old daughter spending a night with a teenage boy.

Didn't there used to be a custom with arranged marriages, a chaperone sitting in on a child bride's wedding night? Why weren't they doing that now? Why weren't her parents insisting on it?

Gabrielle was still crying. Harry couldn't take it any more.

"I'll try to get your mother to come here, Gabrielle. Just wait, or try to go to sleep."

There was no answer, except maybe a momentary reduction in the volume of the sobs.

Escaping "their" room through the only exit, Harry immediately saw Gabrielle's sister, who paused in her pacing and turned a furious glare on him.

"Oh, good! I was wondering how I'd find your mother but you're good enough." Harry was so relieved to see her that he didn't wonder at Fleur being awake and here despite the hour. And didn't notice her outraged look at being referred to as _good enough_. "Come in. Gabrielle's been crying and I can't get her to stop."

"What did you do to her, you animal?" Fleur growled.

"Nothing! I never touched her." Wasted words. She had already brushed past him to rush to her little sister.

Even with the translation spell, Harry couldn't make out the murmuring of the two sisters. He just flopped himself into one of the room's two chairs and tried to relax enough to sleep.

No such luck. Fleur tucked Gabrielle's covers around her before standing up from the bed and then sitting in the other chair.

"She exhausted herself crying but did confirm that you did not force yourself upon her. Perhaps I was hasty in accusing you."

It wasn't an apology. Despite being in a bedroom – a _marriage_ bedroom with a very beautiful young woman, Harry wasn't at all interested. Her arrogance and mood swings were not at all attractive. It couldn't just be a beautiful woman thing because Parvati wasn't at all arrogant. Maybe that was how the Delacours had raised their girls, or maybe all part-veela were like that. If that was true, Harry didn't want to have anything to do with either of them.

Except he had to. He was married to Gabrielle.

Sighing, Harry asked in French, "Would you mind staying here the rest of the night? Even if she doesn't wake up during the night, she'll still wake up in the morning, and probably start crying if it's just her and me here. You can have the bed with her. I'll sleep on this chair."

"Yes, of course I will keep my sister safe and secure. Good night … brother in law."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Yah, I went with the idiotic veela-life-debt-forced-marriage trope, but only to point out a way to take care of one potential problem. Of course the Potterverse magic-raised people wouldn't think of such an obvious solution, but that's because their IQs are somewhere in the low double digits. In the real world, in some cultures child marriages for political reasons had chaperones in the room to make sure the groom didn't force himself on a prepubescent bride. Byzantines: 1. Fanfic authors: 0.

The reason I wrote this was because I just read a one-shot in which the weeping veela child bride trope was used, and used badly. Don't ask; I've repressed the name of the story and I won't embarrass the author or the person who put that bit of rubbish in his favorites.


	3. Cock-blocker (HP)

**Cock-blocker**

Universe: Harry Potter, upper school years

Rating: T

...ooo000ooo...

Hermione was sitting with Harry in the Great Hall when a rather scrawny underclassman approached them.

"Um, here, um, this is for you," the young wizard said. He appeared nervous, possibly because he was maybe a Third Year talking for the first time to Hogwarts's most well-known student.

"What is it?" Harry asked.

"It's a note. From my sister. Um, see you around." And the young man was gone.

"You'd better let me take a look before you open it, Harry," Hermione suggested. "I'm better with detection charms, and you can't be too careful."

No sooner had she cast the first charm when the note burst into flame. Luckily, the Hogwarts tables had taken much worse than a burning piece of parchment, so this new scorch mark was lost amongst the older damage.

"Well! I guess we have our answer." To be honest, she wasn't quite certain she'd done that spell _quite_ right. However, considering the number of people who were trying to get Harry, the most likely explanation was that the note had been trapped somehow.

"Thanks, Hermione. I don't know what I'd do without you."

...ooo000ooo...

Hermione had just spent the afternoon goofing off with Harry. It had been a spontaneous thing. Lavender had made a remark about Hermione not picking her nose unless it had been scheduled two weeks in advance. Hermione had sniffed – as if she picked her nose at all! – but the crack had cut close enough that she just had to do something unscheduled _right now_.

She'd dragged Harry away from heading off to the unused classroom that a number of students used for just hanging out. She didn't feel guilty about changing his plans on no notice. He hadn't ever gone to that room on any of the previous weekends and was going this time only because Seamus and Dean had specifically invited him, so it wasn't like he was about to miss a regular part of his social life.

Besides, she sniffed, most of the students went there only for hooking up and making out. Harry didn't have a girlfriend and would no doubt be embarrassed at watching other students leave in pairs or even make out in front of others. He really was quite naive, for a young man in his middle teens. Probably Hermione, his best friend now that Ron was spending all of his time chatting up girls, should help him overcome that.

...ooo000ooo...

"Excuse us, you're Hermione Granger, right?"

Hermione turned to the pair of young girls. Hufflepuffs, probably around second year. "Yes? Can I help you?"

"Yes, we were hoping you could advise us on courses for next year. They said you're a Muggleborn, so you'd know best if Muggle Studies is worth taking."

"Could we maybe go to the library so we can talk about it?"

"No, there's no need to go that far. If you're looking to learn about muggles, don't bother with the Muggle Studies class. It's nothing but a waste of time. If you need the OWL in order to get a job with the ministry, then take it but talk to Muggleborn students to learn the real information."

"But… can't we talk some more about it?" the first girl asked rather urgently as Hermione resumed walking toward where Harry was no doubt goofing around rather than working.

"No, I've told you the most important bit and I have something else to be doing. You can talk to any other Muggleborn, I'm sure."

...ooo000ooo...

Hermione was again sitting with Harry, this time in the library. There was nothing unusual about that. Left to himself, he'd dawdle and procrastinate on his homework, then rush it and do a terrible job.

Honestly! Hermione had to put so much effort into keeping Harry on track. He'd fail for sure if she didn't keep him from frittering away his time on frivolous activities.

"Excuse me." A young voice interrupted their essay writing.

"Yes?" Hermione responded. "Did you need Harry or me?"

"Uh, Harry. Uh, Mr Potter."

Hermione stared at the young wizard while he and Harry exchanged words. The boy looked familiar.

"So, um, could you come with me and talk to her? She's waiting in one of the classrooms just down the hall. It's not far."

"Wait a moment, Harry," Hermione requested as he was about to stand up and walk off. Addressing the younger student, she demanded, "Aren't you the one who gave Harry a trapped note a week ago? I didn't report you to the professors, but that doesn't mean I'm going to trust you not to trick him again."

"What? No, I never—"

"Just be off with you, or I'll bring a professor in."

As the stranger scurried off, plot obviously defeated, Harry said, "Thanks again, Hermione. I'd get in trouble without you for sure."

...ooo000ooo...

"All right, Granger, what's it going to take?"

Hermione blinked as she looked up at her two classmates standing over her in the library. "Excuse me?"

"You've been keeping every other girl away from Harry Potter. Maybe you're not interested in dating him—"

"Or anyone!"

"—but did it ever occur to you that maybe someone else was interested in him?"

"Like us!"

"Right! So what do we have to do to get you to let us talk to him?"

"Wait, you're interested in Harry? Interested-interested? Why? Never mind; that's none of my business. Why don't you talk to him and see if he's interested? And what do you mean, I've been keeping you away from him?"

"Don't play innocent, Granger. Once or twice might have been coincidence, but I've been trying to get a date _all year_! And you've blocked me every time."

"And me, too. There's a saying I read somewhere: Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action. Are you setting yourself up as our enemy?"

"Not just us. A couple other girls tried, too, after we started complaining about you. You blocked them all."

"We tried talking to Harry. We tried sending notes to Harry. We sent my brother to ask Harry to meet me. We tried distracting you so someone could talk to Harry. We even tried ambushing you! And you smashed right through everything and pretended you never noticed anything!"

Hermione was flabbergasted they would accuse her of such a thing. "No! I haven't! I haven't done anything. I never even noticed anyone trying to ask Harry out!"

"Yah, right. So, like we said to start with, what's it going to take, Granger? You've set yourself up as, as his chatelaine—"

"His appointments secretary!"

"—and we have to go through you to talk to him. So what do you want?"

Hermione leaned back and gazed at the others through half-lowered eyelids for a few moments as she considered what to tell them. "It's none of my business whom Harry dates, other than my concern about him as his friend. It's not my place to vet prospective girlfriends. That said, anyone making him unhappy will have to deal with me. And, because Harry is a student first and foremost, of course he must place his studies first, and dating and other entertainment second."

The other two girls didn't seem happy with that answer, but tough. She'd set out her position clearly and concisely. Hermione took her responsibilities as Harry's friend very seriously.


	4. Time Away (HP)

**Time Away**

Universe: Harry Potter, early in fourth year

Rating: T

...ooo000ooo...

"Say, Hermione, there's something I've been meaning to ask you."

"Yes, Harry?"

"Er, I don't want to pry, but why did you spend the whole summer with the Weasleys? I can understand the last week or so, so you could go to the Quidditch World Cup and then catch the Express with the rest of us, but why the whole summer? Don't you miss your parents? Don't they miss you?"

Totally at odds with the question, Hermione immediately blushed a fiery red. Harry wondered what that was about but she answered before he could ask.

"Yes, I'm sure they miss me. And I miss seeing them. At least, I miss spending time with them. I don't need to see any more of them than I already have."

"Huh?"

Hermione's blush returned. "They've, they've gotten used to having the house to themselves. With the blinds drawn."

"Ohhh…" Harry could imagine what she'd seen: naked parents. Then he thought about Vernon and Petunia having the house to themselves during the school year. "Ewww…"

"Yes, 'Ohhh'. And it gets worse. As if it weren't bad enough for me to see my father's backside heading through a doorway, I saw my mother cooking one morning, wearing nothing but an apron."

"Ewww…"

"Yes, it quite put me off my breakfast. And that's not the worst of it!" Hermione's voice rose into the rant he'd heard so often. "Not the worst by far! Do you know what I caught them doing in the living room when I came home unexpectedly early one afternoon? Can you guess?!"

"Oh, no!"

"Yes! I came in the front door and saw them rutting away like a pair of hormonal teenagers! I never want to sit on that couch again."

"Oh, poor Hermione."

"Honestly! It's like they're fifteen years old and just figured out what goes where! Even after I shamed them into at least wearing _clothing_ in the house, they never stopped! Every night from the day I came home it was bang-bang-bang of their bed against the wall! They kept it up for hours! Every night! I simply couldn't take it any longer. After two weeks I made my mother take me to London so I could send an owl to the Weasleys, asking them – no, _begging_ them – to come rescue me from the sex fiends."

"Poor Hermione. I wish there was something I could do."

"Oh, you can. I'll send a letter to my parents in a month or so, asking if you can stay with us over the winter holidays. At night, I'll lock my door and then rhythmically slam my bed's headboard into the wall, and the next morning sleep late and come out of my room smiling."

"Er, Hermione? Wouldn't that make your father want to kill me?"

"I imagine the thought would cross his mind, but I'm sure he won't actually attempt it."

"If you say so. But if your parents check either your room or the guest bedroom, they'll see that you were fooling them and the trick won't work anymore."

"Yes, you're right, of course. I suppose…" she blushed again and looked away, then turned back to Harry, looking at him under her eyelashes. "I suppose you'd have to spend the nights in my room."

This was a perfect place to not say anything. Just smile and nod and don't say anything and take what life offers you.

Sure, Cho was pretty and she'd smiled at him a few times, but Hermione was his friend and she was talking about bedroom stuff and she was blushing but she wasn't looking away. Bird in the hand…


	5. Deadly Weapon (HP)

Universe: Harry Potter, Year 1, right after Harry killed the troll

Rating: T

**Deadly Weapon**

"Very well, then, Mr Potter. Kill me."

Harry didn't say anything. Couldn't say anything. He was too startled by her words.

"Well? What's keeping you?"

McGonagall had ordered Harry to her office after she'd confiscated his knife. The knife he'd used to kill a troll which had broken in and rampaged through the castle on Halloween and almost killed a student with no professors anywhere near. "A school is no place for a weapon, Mr Potter!" she'd lectured as she took points along with his knife. He'd protested that every student carried a deadly weapon. That led to McGonagall's surprising demand.

"You see, Mr Potter, a wand in the hand of a child is anything but a deadly weapon. The charms and transfigurations taught in the first several years of the Hogwarts curriculum are not a threat to anyone.

"Now, given that you have tacitly admitted that a wand is _not_ a deadly weapon, you must admit that a knife is wholly inappropriate in a school. You will be on probation for the rest of the term and will serve one hour of detention with me every night. Any further threats to your fellow students will result in your immediate expulsion. Do you understand?"

That was too much. Not a word of appreciation for him stopping a _troll_ from _killing_ a classmate, and now this threat of endless punishment?

"I accept your challenge, professor."

"What?"

"I accept your challenge. First I want you to give me permission to kill you, in writing, so I don't get in trouble. Then I'll do my best to kill you with first year spells."

"What? I never—"

"If you're still alive in a week, I'll admit you're right, that a wand is not dangerous, and you can keep my knife and put me on probation and all the rest. If I'm right… well, you'll be dead. I'll have to get my knife back some other way. Do you think you could carry it with you, so I can take it from your dead body?"

That knife was very important to Harry. He'd acquired it a little over a year ago and had put it to good use in making Duddykins's little friends keep their distance. He'd managed to keep it secret from Dursleys and teachers all this time. And now, the first time he used it to protect someone else instead of himself, he got it taken away. The lesson McGonagall was teaching him was surely not one she wanted to teach.

"Mr Potter! You can't seriously expect—"

"And you have to keep on your normal routine. It's no fair if you take vacation for a week and then come back and say you won, or even if you just hide in your rooms. And I want a note giving me permission to use magic in the hallways. It's not fair if the only place I can try to kill you is in the classroom. That would interfere with other students' education, and I don't want to get them mad at me. They don't have anything to do with your challenge."

"Absolutely not! I refuse to have anything to do with this, this _farce_ you are attempting."

"What's the matter, Professor? _Afraid_? If you're too afraid of a firstie attacking you, then _you_ have to admit that a wand _is_ a deadly weapon, even in the hand of a student with only two months of magical education. And if I already have a deadly weapon, then I want my knife back. It's my property and you have no reason to keep it.

The tone of voice Harry used in provoking the professor was _exactly_ the same as he'd used to provoke Dudley into doing stupid things. And it had the same result. There was no way it could be a good thing, that one of his professors reacted the same way as Duddy-dum-dum.

After a burst of what _had_ to be cursing, McGonagall returned to English. "There's nothing on this Earth I'm afraid of, Mr Potter! Here are your permission slips. A week from today I'll see you expelled!"

...ooo000ooo...

Minerva suffered an unprecedented series of inconveniences over the next several days. Her own magical strength was enough that she could throw off the Jellylegs Jinx which hit her at the top of a flight of stairs, and the Leg Locker on another stairway didn't even slow her down. Didn't slow her down magically, that is; she wasted a minute trying to catch the little bastard, but one small, black-robed figure hurrying to class looked just like any other and she never spotted him.

The flight of needles, which had obviously been transfigured from finger-sized pieces of wood, was more of a threat, but luck saved her. None of them hit her eyes or any other vital area.

The last day of the "challenge" came, and McGonagall was making plans to celebrate over a bottle after expelling the brat. She wondered what had gone wrong, how the son of two fine students could have turned out so bad. In the end, though, it wasn't her problem. She was here to teach the students who wanted to learn, and the others could just take themselves elsewhere.

Heading down from the Transfiguration classroom to the Great Hall for dinner and public expulsion, Minerva was taken by surprise by a very bright light right in her eyes, punctuated by loud bangs. She never noticed the jinx which made her knees wobbly, but she couldn't help but notice her left shoe go flying forward and upward, taking her foot with it, and her leg, and the rest of her body.

She was too disoriented for thought as her eighty-year-old body went flying down three long flights of stone steps. The last thing to go through her mind was the halberd held by one of the suits of armor on the ground floor.

* * *

**A/N**: Inspired by _Harry Potter and the Three Rules_ (FFN story 9641777, chapter 9), in which McGonagall challenged Harry to kill her with the spells he'd learned by early in first year. Stupid stupid stupid…


	6. Trade School (HP)

Universe: Harry Potter, a few months into third year

Rating: K

**Trade School**

Hermione sat down at the table where Harry was doing his homework. She didn't say a word. She didn't even take out any papers or even a book, and that _was_ unusual.

"What's wrong?" Harry thought she looked bad, shattered. Like she'd just gotten some terrible news. "Are… are your parents…?"

"What?" She shook herself and then seemed to replay his words through her brain. "Oh, yes, of course. My parents are fine.

"Harry? Would you say I'm intelligent and able to learn?"

"Huh? Yah, of course. Top of our year, aren't you? You're the only reason Ron and I are passing. Why would you even ask?"

"I was just advised to drop several of my classes because the professors didn't think I'd be able to handle the work."

Harry blinked. "What? _You_? That doesn't make any sense."

"That's what I thought, but Professors Trelawney, Vector, and Babbling all told me that I simply was not cut out for their classes, that my approach to learning was all wrong and that I would never be able to progress past the basics."

Harry stared at his brainy friend in disbelief. "I think you can ignore anything Trelawney says. Six weeks, and she hasn't taught us anything useful and hasn't made any predictions that came true. Really true, I mean. Saying something vague about getting news and then two days later Lavender gets a letter doesn't count. And I'm still alive, aren't I? Not dead yet?"

His feeble joke didn't get even a weak smile from her. "Thank you, Harry. I didn't pay Professor Trelawney's statement much mind, for essentially the reasons you suggested, but then the other two professors told me the same thing. Even Professor Sinistra said something along the same lines, though more mild. I didn't know how to take it. I've learned all of the material that has been presented and gotten top marks on all of the assignments so far, and I even followed the professors' instructions to not read ahead in the texts. Why would they say I'm not suited for their classes?"

That was a good question, Harry thought. Hermione could learn anything she set her mind to, he was sure. "I don't know, either. Did you ask them directly?"

"No, I was too shocked and upset."

"OK. I can't believe I'm about to suggest this, but let's read up on the subjects. I would suggest asking some of the older students, but I've noticed, ah…"

"You've noticed that a lot of them are rather foolish?"

"Yes, that's it. Let's check the library first."

"Research? You're offering to help me research?"

Harry gave an exaggerated and much-put-upon sigh. "Yes, Hermione. It's important to you, so I'll help you with your research." His offer visibly cheered her up, so he didn't mention that he was tired of losing at chess to Ron, Quidditch practice was over until Spring, and he wasn't allowed to go to Hogsmeade, so he really didn't have anything better to do.

...ooo000ooo...

Research into the disciplines of Divination, Arithmancy, and Runes pointed the two students in two directions. On the one hand, all three, as well as Astronomy, had a heavy component of fortune-telling. Centuries or millennia ago, one of runes' most important uses uses was in telling the future. The same went for arithmancy, which used the (alleged) mystical properties of numbers to perform fortune-telling calculations. Astronomy was a real science, of course, but "astronomy" as taught at Hogwarts was actually astrology.

The other common feature of the four courses was that they all required massive memorization of apparently random facts. Take tarot cards: each card had a meaning, and another meaning when reversed. And possibly other meanings when next to certain other cards. And modifications of the meanings depending on which position it came in the spread. And on the sex of the reader and the client. And…

Earlier in the year, Hermione had already tried to find a reference manual to help her make sense of all this. Failing to find one, she attempted to organize all the facts in some fashion to make sense of them, or at least to make them easier to memorize. It all came to naught.

"We're not getting anywhere with this, Harry," Hermione finally admitted after a week of intensive and wasted effort. "I'm going to ask my professors again why they think I'm not suited for their classes, as well as for suggestions for books on theory. There _must_ be some way to make sense of this mess, there simply must!"

"Let's talk to Trelawney first," Harry suggested. "I'm not in the other two, so she's the only teacher I can go with you to talk to."

After their next Divination class, the two budding scholars dashed over to talk to Professor Trelawney, intercepting her before Parvati and Lavender could pester her for yet another prediction concerning their love lives.

"Professor, I wonder if you could look at these charts I've made for finding patterns in the meanings of Tarot cards. I've successfully done only a tenth and I was hoping that you could point me in the right direction so I could make more progress."

"Oh, my dear, this shows exactly why you are not suited for a career in divination, nor even further study. Your approach to the discipline is wrong, entirely wrong. I urge you to go to your head of house to drop my class and put your effort into a field more suitable to someone with your weaknesses and strengths."

"But Professor—"

"No, no more. You simply are never going to amount to anything in this field, and I need to give more attention to my more gifted students." Trelawney turned to Parvati and Lavender, who were not even trying to conceal their gloats of superiority.

Harry had to guide Hermione toward the stairs. It looked to him like she was in shock at the casual dismissal of… of her worth as a student and a scholar.

...ooo000ooo...

Meeting up at dinner, Hermione filled Harry in on the results of talking to her other professors. Long story short, Vector and Babbling had told her almost exactly what Trelawney had. Vector hadn't even bothered to look at Hermione's attempt at organizing the scattered nuggets of arithmantic data, while Babbling had used her runes charts as an example of why she needed to drop Ancient Runes immediately.

"I don't understand!" Hermione exclaimed, frustrated nearly to tears. "They won't even tell me _why_ they don't want me to be a student. What's wrong with me?"

"There's nothing wrong with you," Harry reassured you. "You're a perfect student. There's something wrong with them, or something wrong with the classes."

"Thank you, Harry. Will you accompany me to talk to Professor McGonagall?"

"Sure. As soon as we're done eating."

They followed McGonagall to her office, where she metaphorically put on her Head of House hat. "What seems to be the trouble, Miss Granger, Mr Potter?"

Hermione summarized what the other professors had told her, along with the research she'd done in her attempt to win the instructors' approval.

McGonagall sighed and summoned a house-elf to bring pastries for the students. "I was afraid of this. Miss Granger, I am afraid your other professors are correct. You are not well suited for their classes. No, hear me out. You have an organized mind, very logical and methodical. Tell me, is Professor Trelawney organized? Is Professor Babbling methodical?"

"Not in their classroom presentation. I don't deal with them outside the classroom, so I have nothing to say about that."

"A very well thought out and balanced answer," McGonagall approved, "and further evidence of my point. To fill in a gap in your knowledge, Professors Babbling, Vector, and Trelawney are not at all organized, logical, or methodical in any part of their lives. And I will thank you both to keep my commentary to yourselves," she continued over a firm look.

"So…" Hermione was thinking out loud. "So the professors don't want me in their classes because I'm too logical? Is it a personality conflict?"

"Not exactly, Miss Granger. The problem is with the subjects themselves. They appear to resist logic. The difficulty you had in making your organized tables was not due to any lack of cleverness or information on your part. If you had attempted to fit more advanced rune or arithmancy information into your tables, you would have found yourself making more and more complex structures with more and more exceptions.

"Please keep in mind throughout this conversation that I am speaking as an outside observer of the disciplines; I also was not suited for in-depth study of them, as we shall discuss shortly.

"Not only do the subjects resist organization, they resist organized minds. Students who tend to approach learning in a logical manner do well at first, but fall farther and farther behind because they attempt to make sense of the material they are learning.

"Divination, Arithmancy, Runes, and to some extent Astronomy all require an intuitive grasp of the subject. To the extent that anyone can get any useful results fromthem, thinking through what you are doing interferes with making use of them.

"And that, Miss Granger, is why you will very likely not do well in any of these classes. Do you honestly think that, even if you tried, you could become as empty-headed as Miss Brown? And again I will thank you to keep that observation to yourselves."

"I… I understand, Professor." Hermione stopped and thought a moment. "Professor, I've noticed the class makeup of the divination, arithmancy, and runes classes. Would you say that muggleborn students are more logical than pureblood students?"

"Very good, Miss Granger. Well reasoned. To answer your question, I would not say that muggleborn students are generally logical or that pureblood students generally are not, but I would agree that the muggleborn are more _likely_ to be able to reason logically."

"Professor McGonagall," Harry began, "is there a, a disagreement between the fortune-telling teachers and the, ah, practical teachers? I've seen that Professors Vector, Babbling, and Sinistra sit at one side of the staff table and you and Professors Flitwick, Sprout, Snape, and Hagrid sit on the other side. Professor Trelawney doesn't usually eat with the rest of us, but I think she was on the one side the couple times I saw her. And I've overheard a few comments over the years."

"Well spotted, Mr Potter. Yes, there is considerable disagreement. We practical professors, as you put it, tend to look down on the fortune tellers for their wooliness and general inability to get anything useful accomplished. They, in turn, deride us as trade school teachers, able only to give students the bare skills needed to get a job in a shop. And you both _will_ keep this revelation to yourselves. I'm sharing these facts with you only because you have deduced most of it yourselves and I do not wish you to go further and draw incorrect conclusions."

Both students nodded emphatically. They were _not_ going to spoil this unusual bit of candor from their head of house.

"There is one more item that could be important to both of you: the Ministry for Magic is staffed primarily by wizards and witches who were interested in divination and the other wooly subjects."

"What?" burst from Hermione. "Why would that be? The ministry can't possibly need that many fortune-tellers, could it?"

"Think about it, Miss Granger. If a new graduate did well in, say, Transfiguration, she would be well suited for a career in crafting items that others would gladly buy. She might even consider a career as a professor, teaching useful skills to generations of children.

"If, however, the graduate showed no particular ability in any practical skill, what career would be open except rising through the ministry ranks? Natural selection of like-minded individuals would soon make the ministry an unwelcoming place for 'tradesmen', and a benign place for wooly thinkers.

"And, because half of Hogwarts's budget comes from the Ministry for Magic, the ministry is able to provide 'guidelines' for our curriculum. This is why we have four professors teaching variations of divination, and that is why Arithmancy and Runes are considered the most difficult and prestigious courses.

"And _this_ set of observations, Miss Granger and Mr Potter, you are welcome to share. If you put your brains together, I am confident that the two of you will find a solution for this most vexing characterization of useful classes as 'trade school'."

* * *

**Note**: Yes, arithmancy is number-based fortune-telling. The guff about calculating the proper wand movement for a new spell is pure fanon, I do believe. And while runes in olden days certainly could be used for writing things down and then reading them again, there was a very strong mystical component to them, and combinations of runes were used for, you guessed it, fortune telling. Finally, Hogwarts's astronomy class isn't shown as anything more than memorizing names and positions of planets and stars, but it's not much of a stretch to deduce that it's actually an astrology class.


	7. Doing what Is Right (HP)

Universe: Harry Potter, any time after Sirius's death

Rating: K+

**Doing what Is Right**

_"Your parents would have wanted you to do what's right."_

_"I'm sure that, when all is said and done, you will do what is right."_

_"I understand that you feel that you have been wronged, but you must set aside petty difficulties and keep your focus on doing the right thing."_

Harry had been hearing that for years, since the very first day he'd been introduced to the magical world. He couldn't go a week without someone bringing up "do what's right". It was so steady, so persistent, that he wondered if someone was organizing it.

The thing was, no one ever said what _was_ right. Was he supposed to just figure it out? From what, the people he grew up with, the Dursleys? They never cared about _right_. All they cared about was getting as much as they could. Was he supposed to learn from school? What he'd learned from an early age there was that adults didn't care about children. No matter what words they said, they didn't care about a starving, ragged, bruised little boy, so long as he didn't cause a fuss that resulted in loud parents or guardians coming to the school. And Hogwarts was worse, with teachers joining in the abuse, not just turning a blind eye.

"Doing what is right" seemed to mean "doing what I want you to do" or "giving me what I want". There had to be more to it than that. The blood purists wanted all muggleborn to serve them, or to die. Dumbledore seemed to think that the right thing was for Harry to "vanquish" Voldemort but leave everyone else the way they were. The ministry man who just finished talking to Harry had outright said that the right thing was for Harry to support the minister, never mind that the minister was doing nothing to stop Voldemort or even to protect the people being attacked. Muggleborn wanted him to protect them. That last one wasn't so bad. It wasn't fair, maybe it wasn't _right_, that he, almost all by himself, had to save them, but at least it wasn't selfish of them. Giving them what they wanted didn't hurt anyone else, didn't expect him to tell lies.

Maybe the right thing was giving people what they needed, not what they wanted. The blood purists didn't _need_ to dominate the muggleborn, but maybe they needed to be left to themselves, to keep their culture intact. The muggleborn needed some contact with the magical world so they could learn to control their abilities, but they didn't need to be killed or enslaved as part of the bargain.

That was closer, but Harry didn't think it was quite it. The muggleborn needed to be left somewhat alone, but they didn't do anything to _get_ what they needed, didn't do anything to make it happen. They came to Hogwarts and they paid their tuition, but all they did about the prejudice was complain to each other and all they did about the killings was hide. They didn't do much of anything to protect themselves, and not a thing to take the fight to the people who wanted to kill them.

No, doing what was right had to mean giving people what they deserved. Giving them what they had earned.

Not only other people, right? Why did Harry always have to be the one "doing the right thing" for others to benefit? Didn't he deserve what was right, too? He'd been working very hard, been attacked, had to defend himself because no one else would stand up for him, had to defend others because no one else would.

What was right? What had Harry earned? What did he deserve for everything he'd done, the people he'd saved, everything he'd gone through?

What about the magical world, the whole lot of them? What did they deserve? What had they earned, purebloods and muggleborn and everyone in between? And who would give it to them?

Put like that, it didn't take Harry long to figure out how to do what was right.

_Dear Lord Voldemort,  
I propose a truce giving you full control over Great Britain…_


	8. Eating Death (HP)

Universe: Harry Potter, not long after Voldendoofus's death

Rating: T

**Eating Death**

"Could you repeat that, Mr Potter?" Everyone was staring at Harry, but only the newly-appointed Minister for Magic managed to speak.

"You heard me. I am _the_ Death Eater. I have killed all of the pathetic followers of the self-proclaimed Lord Voldemort – oh, grow up, you babies; he'd _dead_. I killed all of the so-called Death Eaters and I will kill anyone else claiming to be a Death Eater."

"But… but… You vanquished the Dark Lord! You saved all of us. Are you following another Dark Lord? Are you declaring yourself a Dark Lord now?"

"No. I mean nothing except what I said. I eat Death. _Only_ I eat Death. It is both my duty and my reward. I will not allow anyone else to eat Death. I will not allow anyone else even to claim it."

Hermione Granger, no longer able to follow him on all of his travels but still his most loyal friend and advocate, nodded slowly in understanding. "You're talking about your ability to survive the Killing Curse, aren't you? Metaphorically, you ate death. I assume this also relates to your mastery of That Which Must Not Be Named."

"Yes, you got it," Harry confirmed, though he wasn't confirming exactly what she though he was confirming.

"So…" the Minister pondered, "You've taken it upon yourself to protect us all from death?"

"Not quite. No one can prevent everyone from dying, but I can make sure that Death will not come down and take large numbers, in big attacks or plagues."

It took a moment for the stunned audience to comprehend what Harry had just promised them, and then the acclaim filled the air. "Three cheers for Harry Potter, protector of us all!"

...ooo000ooo...

The figure of a woman, ever-changing in appearance but always attractive – when in human form she had more than her share of vanity – greeted Harry when he returned to her realm. Death, whom he emphatically was not master of, wrapped her slim arms around his neck and pulled him into a smoldering kiss and enjoyed both the moment and the anticipation. A few minutes and a bit of maneuvering later, she wrapped her slim thighs around his neck so he could eat Death once again.


	9. Triggers (Worm)

Universe: Worm

Rating: M for language

Trigger warning: insensitivity

**Triggers**

Sarah "Raven of the Nyght" Crawford crouched in the corner, arms wrapped around her chest, rocking unsteadily as she replayed the words in her mind over and over.

Raven shuddered as the terrible power of the words overwhelmed her grip on reality. For a frozen moment she lost touch with her body. She felt she was drifting in a black void, punctuated by tiny points of light. And over there, was that a giant…

With a snap, the goth girl was back in her body, the vision forgotten in the rush of new powers. She instinctively knew that she was able to manipulate sound, suppressing it partially or completely, anywhere within two feet of herself.

Raven nodded to herself. She'd never have to listen to those trigger words again.

...ooo000ooo...

Janine Williamsdaughter (still known in official records by her cis name, Kevin Williamson) stared slack-jawed at the woman who was blocking her way into the bathroom. "What do you mean, I'm not allowed?"

"You heard me. No one with an Adam's apple is getting into the women's room. I don't care if your ass is in a dress, get it to the men's room right over there."

Janine could have pulled out one of her "Check your privilege" cards, but she was in the middle of a rage-gasm. Everything went black for just a moment, except for sparkling stars, and then she was back in her body.

A body that she could now shape and form however she wanted. It was the work of but a moment to remove the offending Adam's apple, smooth the trace of stubble from her cheeks, and get rid of that offending dangling bit that she'd been saving up her money to have removed.

Tilting up her nose at the obstreperous woman, Janine snobbishly asked, "Satisfied now?" before confidently striding into her proper restroom.

...ooo000ooo...

Tom Hutchins flung himself on the floor, drumming his hands and feet and screaming, "Trigger warning, you bastard! _Trigger warning!_" He couldn't take it any more! Didn't anyone have the least bit of common decency? Didn't it occur to _anyone_ that the mere _mention_ of spankings could set some people off?

He thought at first that the sparkling blackness was just because his eyes were closed so tightly, but for just a moment he felt himself adrift in deep space, with stars in the distance and a giant shape…

The moment passed, and Tom stood up, head held high. Never again would he have to wonder why no one could understand what he was going through. Tom was now able to project his misery and dismay to anyone he could see.

...ooo000ooo...

Tammy-Lynn stomped up to the table in the student union. "I saw that! I saw that, you bitch! I saw that pizza you just shoved in your pizza hole and you didn't even warn anybody that you were going to do it. Guess what, asshole? I used to have an eating disorder! I used to be a fat whale just like you. This crap _makes me want to shove that pizza down your fucking throat_. I could have fucking triggered! _FUCKING TRIGGERED!_ I'm so going to choke you on your _goddamned pizza_ and _mount you while you convulse_! I'm going to _ruin your fucking life_! You feel scared now, you cunt? You disgusting, fat douche!"

If there was anything that triggered a vomitous rage in Tammy-Lynn, it was fat people not taking care of themselves. Take these three blimpos, eating pizza like they didn't even realize how fat and disgusting they were, like they didn't even know they made decent people sick. Not like Tammy-Lynn, who kept her girlishly slim figure through a rigid discipline of vomiting after every meal.

"Oh, shut up and eat a sandwich, you twig." The other fat girls – they had to be _at least_ a size 8 – laughed like fat, disgusting _pigs_ at that lardo's joke.

That did it. If there was anything that would set Tammy-Lynn off, that was it!

When she came back to herself, Tammy-Lynn remembered the vision. That whale-thing was so _fat_! No self respect at all!

Once she'd run to the nearby bathroom and the wave of disgusted nausea had come and gone – free vomit session today! Score! – Tammy-Lynn realized her new power. She could kill anyone with sex. She gave a critical look at herself in the mirror. She'd have to slim down, get rid of that bit of flab on her butt, before she could seduce anyone.

Tammy-Lynn nodded at her reflection, then stuck her finger down her throat, just in case there was anything left down there. There was no time to waste in getting her weight down.

...ooo000ooo...

The gigantic creature, later called Leviathan, surfaced and destroyed hundreds of square miles of city and cropland. It killed millions before it got bored and went back underground.

The superpowered parahumans had been no help at all against the monster. They were all too self-centered to be bothered to fight it. It wouldn't have done any good even if they had. They, and their powers, were too pathetic.


	10. The Powder He Knows Not (HP)

Universe: Harry Potter

Rating: T

**The Powder He Knows Not**

Lord Voldemort, immortal ruler of Great Britain and soon the entire world, sighed and forced himself to stand up straight before he strode in to confront yet another peon. Worthless and incompetent they might be, he could not do without the peons. He didn't have enough time and energy to rule the masses on his own.

One of Lord Voldemort's minions, one of his more competent Death Eaters, saw his lord's shortage of energy and enthusiasm. Luckily, he had an idea for a solution.

"My Lord, I have a supply of a powder, a sort of a dried potion, which will provide you with the energy to get through the day. I do not have personal experience, but I have also heard that the powder makes you more enthusiastic and better able to face life's challenges and setbacks."

The Death Eater would never dream of telling his lord that the powder came from the Muggle world and was not a potion at all. He knew the inevitable result of revealing that.

Voldemort considered his minion's words, then ordered, "Bring me this powder. Quickly!"

Five minutes later, the Dark Lord wiped his nose and upper lip, having been shown how to self-administer this potion. Even before he was cleaned up and presentable, he could feel the magic working. He definitely could handle meeting the next peon, no matter how peonerific!

...ooo000ooo...

Over the next month or so, several changes took place. At first, the deadly Dark Lord was noticeably, and frighteningly, more cheerful and energetic. It was disturbing to everyone to see a dread Dark Lord laughing and skipping and rubbing his lip on his way to meet with people who were more likely than not to be killed before the end of the meeting.

The Death Eater who provided Voldemort with his potion soon became the most valued member of the inner circle. Though the Dark Lord wasn't the type to feel gratitude, even he recognized the wisdom of keeping his potion supplier happy.

Before long, however, happy, bouncy Voldemort disappeared, replaced by twitchy, homicidal Voldemort. Even worse was exhausted, depressed Voldemort. His Death Eaters suffered the torture curse much more than ever before, and a few even died of it. No one was safe from his unpredictable moods.

No one except his supplier. Even at his worst, Voldemort never thought of killing or punishing his supplier.

There was a problem one afternoon. After taking his dose of nose potion and becoming briefly energetic and upbeat, Voldemort rubbed his lip and nose and… His nose? Voldemort checked again, then called his supplier back.

"Stebbins, what has happened to my nose? I am certain that I had a nose yesterday or at any rate last month, but now look! My nose is gone!"

"That is strange, My Lord. With your permission, I'll research this and report my findings to you."

The next morning Stebbins the Death Eater returned. "My Lord, it appears that overuse of this potion can cause damage to the nose. I had noticed that you had been using more and more of the nose potion but did not realize that it was enough to cause problems. Fortunately, I have learned of a new potion that has much the same effect, but with no risk of nose damage. Here is a sample of the 'meth' potion, My Lord."

Voldemort took the small item. "A peculiar name for a peculiar potion. How is it administered?"

"Chew it up and swallow it, My Lord. You should feel the effects within a few moments."

The good news was, Voldemort's nose stopped rotting away. (Not that there was any left to rot away, but there wasn't much other good news to be had.) The bad news was, Voldemort got cranky and crazy – crankier and crazier – from the very first dose. This only got worse after his teeth all rotted. Everyone lived in constant fear of death or torture or having Voldemort breathe his terrible breath in their faces.

Everyone except Stebbins, of course. Voldemort's supplier stayed safe so long as he had a pocketful of rocks.

The other good news was, Dark Lords are not known for being fitness fanatics, especially when they are undead monstrosities living in construct bodies. Their hearts are not up to the strain put on them by powerful potions. Voldemort dropped dead less than a week after chewing up his first rock.

As soon as the Dark Lord was down and cold, "Stebbins" washed off his magic marker Dark Mark, popped out his dark contacts, and perched his glasses on his nose. Stealing Dudley's stash before infiltrating Voldemort's group was the smartest thing he'd ever done.

* * *

**Public Service Announcement**: Drugs are bad, m'kay? Unless you make them yourself from all-natural ingredients, because everything all-natural is good, m'kay? Drugs you get from your older brother or sister are OK, because you can always trust your big brother and sister. And your parents. And drugs from your friend's big brother or sister are OK, too. Unless the big brother or sister is trying to get you naked. Then the drugs are probably bad, m'kay? And drugs you get from your inept minions are almost always going to be bad, m'kay?


	11. Super Names (Worm)

Universe: Worm

Rating: M for suggestive language

**Super Names**

The newly-enlisted cape came into the large training room and was relieved to see someone already there. "Hey, how you doing? I'm here to join a new team. Am I in the right place?"

"Sure are," came the other man's response. "Or else we're both in the wrong place." The two shared a chuckle at the lame joke.

"I guess you're a Master? You control those chickens over there? I can't think of why else you'd have a bunch of chickens in cages."

"That's right. They're roosters, actually. I can't control hens."

"Huh. Weird. I'm a Master, too. Burros, donkeys, any small equines. Some ponies, but not horses. So what's your name? Cape name, I mean."

The man coughed and looked away and might have blushed though his mask covered his whole face. "Er, uh, well, uh. I know I've got to share it, but it's totally embarrassing. Promise not to laugh, right?"

"Sure. I promise. Can't be worse than what they've assigned me."

"OK. Remember, you promised. They're calling me Cock Lord."

"Oh, man, that's rough. If it makes you feel any better, I'm Ass Master."

The two blinked at each other and shook their heads.

"Someone must have been doing drugs that day when they made up their names."

"That's as good a guess as any. Only good thing is, with both of us having totally stupid names, we can cover for each other if anyone gets on our asses. I mean, gives us any problems."

A tapping at the door caused the two men to look over and see a costumed, female figure. "Hi. Is this where the new team is meeting?"

"Sure is. C'mon in."

The young woman walked in, accompanied by a dozen cats walking in two orderly lines.

"Don't tell me, let me guess," Ass Master groaned. "You're a Master, right?"

"Yes. All kinds of cats."

"And did you get a good cape name, or did they give you something bad?" Cock Lord continued.

"Oh, no, I _knew_ someone was going to ask me that right away! I can't even say it. It's, it's _so_ embarrassing!"

"Us, too. Brace yourself. I'm Ass Master."

The woman's mouth opened into an O of surprise.

"And I'm Cock Lord."

"Oh, my god, that's horrible. But now I can tell you the name the gave me. I'm Pussy Princess."

They all groaned in shared misery.

"What was the Protectorate thinking?"

"All I can think of is, a bunch of roosters and donkeys and cats aren't that dangerous, and the Protectorate wants the villains to laugh themselves to death when we introduce ourselves."

They all groaned again, but no one had any better ideas.

The fourth and last team member finally arrived, pulling a cart holding a number of large, brown rodents.

"Oh, god, don't tell me," Pussy Princess said. "You're a Master, and you're called Beaver Something, it's got to be, right?"

"Yah. Beaver Driver. They've gotta have given me the worst cape name ever."

"Want to bet?" the other three asked.

...ooo000ooo...

In another part of the building, an office sat empty. Until very recently it had been the domain of the local Protectorate's public relations director.

Until recently. He'd been sacked for being too unimaginative and serious. This didn't sit well with the man, and he'd made a few last-minute name changes to the current project before he was hustled out.


	12. Insert This (Worm)

Universe: Worm

Rating: T

**Insert This**

So, there I was, in front of my computer on a Saturday night. Sunday morning, rather. I'd just finished binge-reading a whole pile of Worm fics. There wasn't anything new showing up, so I got myself another bottle and sat back to rest my eyes. Nothing like reading a screen for six hours to remind me that I'm not getting any younger.

Relaxing with my drink, I thought about all the things that were wrong with Worm-verse – _everything_, close enough – and how someone with just a bit of brains and some foreknowledge could change the world. Power would help… or would it? Most capes had some serious mental problems, mostly tied to their powers. Maybe it would be better to go into Worm-verse without any power, just brains and knowledge.

Let's say _I_ got plopped in. How would I fix things? There'd be lots of ways to do it. Self-insert for the win, yo. I opened up a text file and started typing up some ideas. That's what I was doing when the late night got to me and I drifted off…

...ooo000ooo...

I woke up knowing that something was wrong. Before I could figure it out, I followed an order that I couldn't resist and landed on a giant, warm thing. The next thing I knew, a giant shadow passed over me, and then I didn't know anything.

...ooo000ooo...

I woke up again, feeling something was wrong again. Before I could get my bearings, I had to follow an order to walk over there and then stop. Almost as soon as I got here I picked up a smell that commanded that I run away and hide – but I couldn't. I was locked in place, unable even to twitch, as the horror drew near.

...ooo000ooo...

I woke up, wondering how I'd survived whatever had scared me so badly. Even if whatever it was didn't cut me up with a chainsaw or swallow me whole, I should have had a heart attack… though something seemed off about that thought.

No matter. The smell of food came to me and I realized I was famished. I crawled toward the delicious smell as fast as I could. I had to eat and eat and grow and then reproduce. Something seemed off there, too – I'd always vaguely wanted to have kids, but this _urge_ to reproduce was new – but then I was at the food and all I could do was eat.

After I ate and ate and ate, I fell asleep. When I woke up, everything was different, but I didn't have time to figure it out before an overwhelming urge to eat and then mate came upon me. Not being able to control that urge, I did the one and then the other. And then I just moved over to the side and stayed there. Until a shadow passed over one eye after another, and then everything went dark.

...ooo000ooo...

I woke up again flying through the air. I didn't know what I was doing up in the air, but before I figured it out – before I even got to wonder how I was able to fly – I had to dive toward a big, white thing, then land, then crawl and force my way into the wet opening I saw. Crawling down the soft tunnel killed me, but I felt the satisfaction of carrying out my orders.

...ooo000ooo...

The next time I woke up, I immediately felt the same old pressure of an order I could not resist. I had to run and run, up and over and through and under and keep going until I could barely move any of my legs.

The only good thing was, it gave me time to think, to figure things out.

The first thing I figured out was, I had a lot of legs. I was a friggin' bug! A beetle of some kind, maybe a cockroach, not that I'm any kind of expert on friggin' cockroaches except for how to stomp on them.

The next thing I figured out was that these weren't just instincts making me do things. Something, or some_one_, was making me do it. It wasn't too great a leap to realize that the last thing I'd been thinking about was Worm. And entering the story. And…

Oh, crap.

Taylor was always a sympathetic character in Worm, dumped on endlessly but always trying to do her best. Any reader who wasn't a total jerk hoped she worked things out, hoped she found at least a little happiness.

But now… Now she's been making me run, and up ahead I hear a bunch of my cousins chewing on something hard. Now I'm getting a new order to chew on this non-food stuff. Oh, crap! It's a wire. That bitch Taylor wants me to chew through a wire's insulation and I'm going to die again. Oh crap oh crap oh crap!

Oh, yah, sure, I'll bet a bunch of you readers out there (I'm trapped in a fanfiction, so of course there are readers, unless the author really sucks) figured it out lifetimes ago. All I can say is, let's see you do any better when your brain is smaller than a grain of sand. And when you die every time you turn around.

...ooo000ooo...

That's the way it went, life after life. I'd "wake up" when Taylor gave a command to do something, I'd have no choice but to do what that bitch ordered, and I'd usually die a couple minutes later.

You want to know something that really really sucks? Being eaten by a female of your species while you're having sex with her.

Let me tell you, that gets real old, real quick.

...ooo000ooo...

So now I'm a crab. I woke up and within a minute or two figured out that I was a crab. A crab up on the beach, being forced to walk in circles and do other stunts. I remember this scene, and I remember from the story that Taylor was humiliating me and the others just so she could get into Brian's pants. Not that I can see either of them way up there, because I'm a crab.

I hate this! Hate it hate it hate it! If I could get to that bitch, I'd tear her apart! But I can't tear her apart, can't even give her a pinch, because I can't get up to her, because I'm a friggin' crab.

Hey, all of you authors out there who think it would be great to write yourself into a story, here's a message for you from crabby little me: Eat me!

* * *

**A/N:** Somewhat reminiscent of that poor sap who kept getting killed by Arthur Dent, life after life. If you don't know what I'm talking about, for shame! Go out and get all five books of the _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ trilogy.


	13. True Tales (HP)

Universe: Harry Potter

Rating: PG

**True Tales of the Boy Who Lived**

"And with those final words, the Boy Who Lived left the dragon reserve, waving goodbye to his new friend. The end."

Remus Lupin, known to thousands of adoring fans as the reclusive Portia Trueheart, stood up from his writing desk, leaning to crack his back but wobbling before he finished. He looked longingly at the bottle on the corner of the desk but resisted temptation. That was the deal he had made with himself. He drank only when writing.

The next day, Remus met with his publisher.

"We have another winner here," the cigar smoking wizard said confidently after giving it a quick read. "It'll take a couple weeks to clean it up – you really need to cut back on the booze, you know –"

"You tell me that every time we meet, but I just can't write when I'm sober," Remus explained.

"And you tell me that every time we meet, but it's killing you. Everyone can see that." The man shrugged his shoulders. "You're a big boy, you can make your own choices. Anyway, like I was saying, a couple weeks to clean it up and get it ready, then it should be on the shelves by the middle of next month." Typesetting and printing was much faster in the magical world than in the mundane. "You want half of the royalties put into vault 687, same as always?"

"Yes, thank you. Poor kid didn't get anything from his parents so I'm helping him out."

The war with Voldemort had been going terribly in the 1970s and early 80s. Between traitors and corruption in the ministry and the department heads who thought that office politics was more important than winning the war, only the Order of the Phoenix had effectively resisted the Death Eaters.

But a war can't be fought on the cheap. Albus Dumbledore, Leader of the Light, had had to ask all of his wealthy supporters to dig as deep as they could. The Potters had given everything, even selling their ancestral manor for sickles on the galleon and living in a simple cottage.

The Potters' generosity helped keep things together long enough for Harry to defeat Voldemort. That was good. But it left the boy not only orphaned but impoverished. That was bad.

You'd think that the ministry would have set aside a reward for him. You'd think that a grateful public would shower him with gifts.

You'd be wrong.

Early in 1982 Remus had been sitting in his tiny flat, drunk and feeling sorry for himself. He'd been thinking about some of the silly stories he and his friends had made up after Harry was born. He took another drink… And when he sobered up the next day he noticed a fully written story on his desk.

Magical Britain's only book publisher snapped it up. Rumors about the Boy Who Lived had been going around for a couple months already and he smelled profit.

The public ate it up.

And the galleons rolled in.

There was only one thing to do. Remus was the last Marauder left so it was up to him to take care of the only child of the Marauders. Dumbledore was right, a drunken werewolf was not a suitable guardian for a child but money was always useful.

Money was something that Portia Trueheart could provide.

Remus gave himself a week to recover from his bender, then bought a couple more bottles of booze.

And so The True Tales of the Boy Who Lived came out like clockwork, every month for ten years.


	14. Bugging the Potterverse (HPWorm)

Universe: Harry Potter, with Worm elements

Rating: PG

**Bugging the Potterverse**

Taylor woke up in… a hotel room.

The last thing she remembered was the muzzle flash as Contessa shot her.

And… the last thing before that was being Khepri. She'd saved the world, thousands of worlds, but she'd been a monster. Contessa had been right to shoot her.

She was still a bitch.

Reaching instinctively out to the bugs around her even as she reached for the note sitting atop a stuffed backpack, Taylor found that she wasn't in Brockton Bay. Probably not in North America. She could work with these insects, no problem, but they weren't what she was used to.

The note said that Contessa had removed her ability to control people and had put her on a different Earth. And there was a group that needed to be saved from a monster. Bitch.

No, not really. Earth Bet was no place for the former Khepri. She couldn't face the people she'd controlled, the few who survived. Anyone who recognized her would want her dead. A fresh start was the best thing for her. Fine. She wouldn't kick Contessa's ass, she'd just give her fleas.

There was no point in sitting around. Aside from the two bandaged wounds on her head and the missing hand, Taylor felt fine. Sane, too, a nice bonus.

She was in London, England. Her hotel was paid up for the next three days and the backpack had a little cash, probably food money for the same time.

So she had three days to find and defeat the monster, or else to find some income so she could keep herself fed.

Even though Taylor resented being thrown at yet another monster, there was no real chance she wouldn't take the "job". She'd always dreamed of being a hero. She'd _become_ a hero as soon as she could after she triggered. She'd fought endbringers and every other S-class threat that got in her way. She'd brought down gangs. She'd established a safe place for the people in her territory and made sure they were fed despite disasters.

She'd fought Scion. She hadn't done it all by herself, but she'd killed an evil god which was going to destroy the world. All the worlds.

Looking just at that last one, Taylor could lay claim to being the greatest hero who ever lived.

But she'd become a hero by becoming a villain first. It gave her a certain flexibility in fixing problems.

Within a quarter mile radius of where she stood right now, Taylor's bugs saw several muggings, a rape, several burglaries, and a dozen drug deals. There were police, but the police didn't see any of that.

Supporting herself would be no problem. Maybe later she'd claim a territory, but tonight she'd steal from the thieves. Oh, and fill the rapist's mouth and nose with cockroaches.

As she walked toward one particular corner so she could pick up the paper money her bugs had pilfered from a drug dealer, Taylor noticed several appearances and disappearances. Teleporters? Contessa's note hadn't said anything about capes on this world, but neither had it said there weren't any capes. Or maybe it was technology. She'd already noticed some differences from Earth Bet and it was possible that this Earth had teleportation devices.

No, not devices. Some people were holding things when they teleported, but the things were all different. One man in a dress – she'd already spotted that men in dresses were more likely than any other group to teleport – didn't have anything at all in his hands when he disappeared.

And then Taylor noticed, through her flying bugs, something bigger than teleportation. There was an area of warped space a few blocks ahead of where she was now. Vista could probably warp an area that big, except that this wasn't changing, that Taylor could tell. Vista would compress space, then move on to the next thing and let the other space relax, then move on again. If she was reading things right as she probed with her bugs, this one was holding steady.

That didn't matter. What did matter was that Taylor was all by herself, on an Earth with capes or technology, or even magic, that was powerful and dangerous. She had to be careful at least until she knew what was going on, how it worked, and how to counter it.

And there was the entrance to the warped space. She spotted it when a small group, including yet another man in a dress, walked from normal space into the warped space. Good to know, and she'd consider that a danger area until she knew what was going on. Especially until she knew what the monster was.

Step cautiously. Don't get their attention until you understand it. Blend in, just a face in the crowd. You can do it, Taylor. Just a girl going through the city, quietly picking up little bundles from odd places, not looking at all like she's watching everything through a swarm of 241,602 insects. Not at all like a hero and former warlord who was looking for a monster to slay. Nope, just an ordinary girl that no one would notice at all.

* * *

**A/N**: The opposite of "a wizard comes to Brockton Bay" stories, which seem to be every other HP/Worm crossover. Don't worry about the couple decades difference in timeline. The "monster" could be Voldemort, a different dark lord, or even the Minister of Magic run amok. Does anyone have the slightest doubt that, one way or another, Taylor/Skitter/Weaver/Khepri would smite the crap right out of it shortly after she figured out what was going on?


	15. Paddletail (Worm)

Universe: Worm, fairly early

Rating: R, for sexual conversation and off-screen content

**Paddletail**

It started by coincidence. Amy had been just walking around, hood up to keep away both the chill and the groupies, when she heard the voice of a girl talking on her cell phone.

She knew that voice.

Amy warred briefly with herself: unwritten rules, medical ethics, personal ethics. The blonde was out of costume, but Amy had been out of costume at the bank and she'd been attacked and she still resented the truths she'd been told, more hurtful than the baton upside her head.

Besides, she wasn't going to _hurt_ the other girl, just mess with her.

Weaving as naturally as she could around other shoppers, Amy got close enough to the other girl to brush a finger across the back of her phone hand, the action disguised as adjusting her own hood. And then kept walking. Delayed action for the win, yo.

Ten seconds later, "Nnnnnnnnng! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!" was heard throughout the little plaza and resulted in multi-person laughter that Amy clearly heard despite not looking.

It was a small victory, but she'd take what she could get.

...ooo000ooo...

It continued on PHO. Amy logged in under her unpublicized, non-Panacea account and was surprised to have a message.

**From**: The_One_Who_Knows  
**To**: Not_a_Hero_713  
**Subject**: I know it was you  
It was you at lunchtime in the food plaza near the mall two days ago. I'll consider us even for past events if you will. I want to discuss it further. Alone and out of costume, please. Reply with time and place for your convenience.  
Tt

Against her better judgment, Amy sent a response and showed up at the burger joint. She was frustrated because of the continuing pressure to heal and because of Carol bitching at her over the slightest thing. And she was frustrated in another way because Vicky had forced her to help her select lingerie for a planned seduction of Dean. Amy needed someone to talk to for a few minutes. Even talking to an enemy, possibly a former enemy, would be better than nothing.

In the booth in the quiet restaurant, the villain identified herself as Lisa and then cut to the chase.

"The way my power works is, as soon as I see someone I start learning about them. When I interact with them, I learn more. The name of their first crush, whether they had a bed-wetting problem."

"I already figured that out from the bank. From the way you blabbed things to Vicky and me and that bug girl." Yes, Amy could carry a grudge.

"Yes. Call us even, remember? Now, the more I interact with someone, the more I learn. Think about a kiss. I learn what they've eaten, what they've done with their tongue, what they want to do with their tongue…"

Amy didn't want to continue with that line of thought. The only tongue she was interested in was Vicky's. And this evening Vicky was planning to— "Ugh. So you're…"

"Effectively asexual. But I don't want to be. I'm a perfectly normal teenager with perfectly normal desires… which I can't fulfill without grossing myself out."

"I can see that." Amy, Panacea, couldn't help but think of this as a medical problem. "Are you asking—"

"No, I don't want you to remove or suppress my power. Not that you can, of course. I'm interested in some kind of adjustment, hormones or neurology or something. I know about your 'brains' thing… but you and I both know the truth, don't we?"

There was that irritating grin again. Pissing Amy off, which was probably the intent. "_If_ I do this for you, make it possible for you to get some, ah, relief, what's in it for me? You're still a villain and you're still a jerk."

"I can provide information. Not anything that would hurt the Undersiders, but items guaranteed to be useful to you." Lisa paused and looked at Amy a moment, grin dropping away. "Although what you really need is companionship. Someone to talk to, let you vent. I can't do that myself. You don't trust me, and you shouldn't trust me. I might be captured and forced to give up secrets. I can look for someone for you. I can't guarantee I can find someone. Discreet girls with no agenda are hard to come by."

"I'll think about it. I'll message you later."

The next few days were rough for Amy. The usual school issues, the grinding hours at the hospitals, and the usual family drama.

"Amy, come here a minute! These panties don't make my butt look fat, do they?" Her sister shoved her thong-clad, sculpted ass in Amy's face. "I want to wear these under a short skirt and do a flounce so Dean can see what he's not getting." Of course. Even when Vicky was mad at him, it was all about Dean. Even when Vicky's perfect, bared bottom was within kissing range, it was all about Dean.

And then Panacea had to go out in a hurry to save someone's life. Golden Girl had been a little too rough – again – on a non-powered individual, and he broke. Vicky promised – again – that this would be the last time. By Amy's count, this was the sixth "last" time.

And then Vicky "borrowed" Amy's Math and English homework. She'd been too busy with patrolling and make-up sex with Dean to do her own work, so she just copied what Amy had spent three hours working on.

And then Vicky tried to make it up to her sister by fixing her up on another blind date. The boy was nice enough and was willing to pay for a nice meal in a nice restaurant, but Amy just wasn't interested. Just like she just wasn't interested in any of the other boys Vicky set her up with.

And then Carol asked why Amy was at the house when she could be boosting New Wave's favorabilities by putting in a few more hours at the hospital.

It was too much. When she finally got free of her sister's and mother's plans and demands, Amy sent a message.

**From**: Not_a_Hero_713  
**To**: The_One_Who_Knows  
**Subject**: Re: I know it was you  
Yes.  
Get a hotel room or some other private place. I'm free tonight and tomorrow night.  
A

Lisa's blonde hair wasn't anywhere near Vicky's color, but Amy could ignore that. Or change it, if Lisa wanted.

Lisa's bottom wasn't anywhere near the marvel that Vicky's was. She would shortly have a perfect ass, if she agreed.

Embarrassed and fidgeting on the hotel room chair, looking anywhere but at Lisa or the bed, Amy started, "I, um, I have a suggestion…"

The grin was back. "Understood. Yes, you can reshape my bottom, but only if you make my boobs bigger, too. Not much, just a bit. You can change my hair color to match Glory Girl's but you have to put it back before we leave. Later we can talk about gradually changing it permanently."

"Changing you to look more like her was only part of it. Vicky's been getting on my nerves lately…"

"But you still love her. I'm not wild about you taking out your frustration on me, but if the price of my relief is you getting a little relief, I can deal with it."

"I can do better than that. You were right the other day. I can change your nerves and your brain. I don't like to, but if you're willing…"

The blonde's grin changed from smart-alecky to sultry. "Give me a perfect ass and then make it an erogenous zone? Yes, please."

...ooo000ooo...

Amy healed the bruises and changed the other girl's hair back from golden to dirty blonde before she left the room. Lisa was in no condition to approve the change; she'd begun wriggling moments after Amy started taking out her frustrations on her bottom, and then begun moaning, and then screamed herself into unconsciousness. Amy had enjoyed it, too, bleeding off stress with every smack on the copy of Vicky's perfect ass. She felt bad about imagining herself spanking her oblivious tease of a sister. Not bad enough to stop doing it. And she was going to steal Vicky's thong for Lisa to wear next time. Should she wait for Lisa to contact her for their next hook-up? No, she'd free up an evening later in the week and message her.

Rubbing at the soreness in her right palm, Amy hummed as she walked to the hospital for an unscheduled shift. For the first time in a long time, she wasn't worried at the prospect of an unending flow of needy people. She could face them and whatever other garbage the world threw at her.

* * *

**A/N**: I think that every Worm fanfic which has Amy paired with someone has her hooking up with Taylor. And Lisa never gets either a boyfriend or a girlfriend. Poor, poor Lisa…

Beyond that, it seems to be established fanon that Amy is a real sweetheart. Um, not the way I read _Worm_. What she was, was an unfortunate person put under stress that would have broken almost anyone, and break she did. However, if she'd had a way to let off some of that stress…


	16. Sowing the Wind (HP)

Universe: Harry Potter

Rating: K+

**Sowing the Wind**

Tom looked longingly at the restaurant as he passed it following another rejection. He hadn't eaten since dinner last night, but he needed to pinch his pennies – his knuts, that is.

This morning's interview had seemed so promising. For one thing, he was vastly overqualified to be a petty bureaucrat in the Department of International Cooperation. Even the department sub-head who'd spoken with him had admitted that Tom's obvious charm, fluency in four languages, and outstanding school performance would be a major asset and would have positioned Tom well for a series of quick promotions.

But. But Tom did not come from a prominent family. No matter that his mother came from a pureblood family stretching back to the dawn of time. They kept to themselves and they were viewed with suspicion, and the family was almost extinct. They weren't a part of "proper wizard society" by any stretch of the imagination.

His father's side was worse. Tom had learned early to keep his father's status a secret, but it didn't matter. Tom did not carry the name of a magical family, so he was at best a half-blood.

The department sub-head was honest about his reason for not hiring Tom. He was even sympathetic with the former Head Boy's difficulties.

That made it worse. If it had been just one bigoted man who refused to hire him because of his parents, that would be one thing. That was the impression Tom had gotten before, with his earlier interviews ending as soon as the subject of family came up. Today, though, the _sympathetic_ man on the other side of the desk took the time to explain how the ministry's power structure really worked and why Tom would be lucky to get a job cleaning the office of a pureblood who'd graduated last in his class.

This was the headmaster's fault, his and the rest of the professors'. They should have explained the way the world worked. They should have told the students who weren't purebloods not to waste their time on their magical courses, that they should instead do just enough to pass and graduate and to put all their extra energy into learning something that would at least let them earn a living in the non-magical world. "

As he walked defeatedly toward the tiny room he rented, Tom saw a Help Wanted sign in a window. The shop looked rather disreputable, with old junk sitting behind dingy glass, but beggars can't be choosers, and Tom was about two days from being a literal beggar.

He went in, hoping but not expecting to get the job. To avoid wasting time, he brought up his parentage right away.

It wasn't a problem. "Good! I don't want any purebloods working for me. Bunch of useless layabouts…"

That evening, with four hours' pay in his pocket, Tom made a beeline to the restaurant.

On the one hand, he was very glad to get the job and grateful to the shop owner. His belly was especially grateful, being full for the first time in weeks.

On the other hand, clerking in a low-end, second-hand shop was not what he thought he'd be doing after graduation. "Apply yourself to your studies. Any position within your abilities is open to you, even Minister for Magic!" That was a flat lie, and Tom would get some payback on the deputy headmaster.

The school wasn't the real problem, though. There'd been lies and omissions and bad advice, but the problem lay in the greater society. A society which cared only which family you were born into, not what you could do.

Well, maybe they needed to learn what he could do.

* * *

**A/N**: This fits canon. Tom isn't necessarily Tom Riddle, this doesn't necessarily take place in the 1940s, and this isn't even necessarily in Great Britain.

Though he could be Tom Riddle. This would explain the odd circumstance of the charismatic and amazingly talented Head Boy going on to work as a clerk in a junk shop. Per canon, Riddle was an evil little scheming wretch even before Hogwarts. But… Tom Riddle lost his revolution, and history is written by the victors…


	17. Power of VD (HP-Buffy)

Universe: Harry Potter, around November 2 of Fourth Year

Rating: K+ (PG)

**The Power of VD**

Harry was walking around the Black Lake. Stomping around it, despite the early-November cold. He needed to get away from everyone for a while. He should be used to it by now, but he was _so tired_ of being blamed, and being stared at, and people making assumptions, and being insulted by half the students and even some of the teachers, and now even being jinxed from behind. And being left to deal with everything by himself.

"Hello. Do you mind if I walk with you?"

Harry was shocked that this Durmstrang girl had gotten right next to him without him noticing. Shocked, and disappointed in himself. Professor Moody was certifiable, but _Constant Vigilance!_ was the best way to keep yourself alive.

"I'd rather—"

"Wonderful! Shall we?" So saying, the girl put her hand in Harry's elbow and unsubtly tugged him to resume his walk.

Harry would have objected to her presence and to her touching him, but she was blonde and pretty and evidently skilled with the warming charm, as she was wearing only an indoor robe, one light enough to show she had a great figure. He didn't recognize her, but he hadn't had much to do with any of the foreigners other than meeting the two champions. This meant that she hadn't joined in the accusations and insults since Halloween night. If Harry had to have someone forcing her presence on him, he could do much worse.

"What's your name? I'm Harry Potter, but you probably already know that."

"Call me Holly. That sounds English and it's close enough to my real name. You would have trouble pronouncing my name correctly."

"It's nice to meet you, Holly." And rather nice to be walking arm-in-arm with her, not that he was forthright enough to say it.

"So, Mr Potter, or may I call you Harry? I don't have to ask why you are angry. I would be, too, in your position. Do you have any idea how you are going to deal with the attacks and insults? Even I, a stranger, can see the stress you are under and the way no adult defends you."

Biting back his first, very snappish, answer, Harry replied, "That's the problem, isn't it? None of the professors is doing a thing when anyone takes a shot at me, but if I say anything back or pull out my wand after I've been attacked, that's when the professors say something. I don't think there's anything I _can_ do."

"Yes, it is a great problem. What would you like to do, if you could? If you could have any wish to strike back at those who attack you, what would it be?"

Startled, Harry looked at his companion. Her pretty face had a fierce look, almost predatory. Red flags went up in his mind.

"Go on, tell me, what would you wish for, if you could have anything." Holly's face was eager now. "Surely there must be some vengeance you'd like to see."

_Vengeance_. That was it, that was what had been bothering Harry about this conversation.

Among the creatures studied last year in Lupin's DADA class were demons of several varieties. One kind was known as the Vengeance Demon. Its job was just what you'd think from its name: getting vengeance for those wronged. They were rare, and more dangerous than most.

The special thing about Vengeance Demons was that they offered wishes so people could get back at people who'd wronged them.

And the thing about the wishes was that they always went overboard. They'd hit the target harder than wished for and they'd get people who weren't supposed to be hit and sometimes they'd even splash back and hit the person making the wish.

Professor Lupin had said that when it came to granting wishes, Vengeance Demons were like well-meaning, over-enthusiastic idiots. Though he'd cautioned the students never to say that, on the unlikely chance that they found themselves talking to one.

"That's an interesting idea, Holly. Say, what's your real name? Even if I can't pronounce it, I'd like to hear it." Some of the demons' names were known, and one of the other students had made a little rhyme to remember the names and the demons' main area of interest. Trust a Ravenclaw to go to all that work for one quiz. Still, Harry remembered some of the rhyme.

"My name is Haliel, Harry. Does that help you at all?" The girl definitely had a knowing gleam in her eye. Harry suspected she knew exactly what he suspected.

"Maybe. It's good to know." _Haliel stands up for little ones._ "It may help me answer your question, about what I'd wish for. While I'm thinking about that, Holly, what do you think about children? They should be protected, right?"

"Oh, yes, children should be protected."

That was good. He was pretty well trapped here – it was dangerous to make the wish and suicide to refuse to make the wish. At least he was lucky that he'd gotten Haliel, avenger of children. He was anything but happy with his classmates, but he didn't want them to be killed.

(_Except maybe a few of them._ He told that little voice to shut up.)

Holly wasn't done yet. "However, children must also be brought up to know the proper way to behave, and that they must suffer the consequences of their actions. You agree, don't you, Harry? Allowing a children to grow up thinking that there are no consequences is such poor preparation for the world that it amounts to child abuse. Don't you agree? You wouldn't want to be responsible for allowing a child to grow up without learning that important lesson, would you, Harry?"

"No, no! Not at all!" Yes, he was trapped. Harry had to think of a way out of this. Ideally a way that kept everyone alive (_Except Snape and all three headmasters and the other tournament officials._ Harry told it to shut up again, but it took him several seconds before he could bring himself to make the effort.) or at least kept all the students alive and hopefully himself, too.

But… why did he think of it that way? Why should he put his life after everyone else's?

In a moment of revelation, Harry realized he'd been raised that way. Raised to think of himself as worthless, fit only to serve others.

If that wasn't child abuse, he didn't know what was. He could lay that at the Dursleys' doorstep. Them, and whoever had laid him at the Dursleys' doorstep – he'd heard that story a thousand times.

If he rejected the training that he was worthless, that everyone else came first, then… then how should he treat them? The only thing that made sense was to treat them as they deserved based on their treatment of—

"Well, Harry? It's not nice to keep a lady waiting. Are you ready to tell me your wish?"

Time's up. Harry drew a deep breath and got ready to make it up as he went like he'd never done before.

"I'm ready. This is a long one, so brace yourself. I wish for the Dursleys and whoever left me there to be exposed as child abusers and to suffer for ten years worse than I suffered, and for all of the teachers and neighbors who never saw that I was being abused to be abused themselves and have no one see it and no one believe them if they tell about it, and for the professors at Hogwarts to face up to all the abuses and attacks and crimes they've let happen because they weren't doing their jobs, and for Snape to get such bad shakes in his hands that he can't make potions or cast spells and for him to get such a bad stutter that he can never insult anyone ever again, and for whoever put my name in the Goblet of Fire to have to face worse challenges than are in the tournament, and for everyone who put my godfather in prison to be given the dementor's kiss or something worse, and for all of the students who attacked me or insulted me to have to deal with the same being done to them for seven years, and for everyone who said they were my friend but who abandoned me to go for a year with no friends at all, and for everyone else I ever dealt with I want the Threefold Rule, so if they were good to me they get three times as much back but if they did anything bad to me they get three times that back."

Haliel looked at him in frank appreciation for a few seconds before clapping. "Ooh, I like that. Your wish will keep me nice and busy for a good while. You have a gift, Harry. You might look into a career in vengeance. Or, if you want to make money while causing misery, I suggest going into the law.

"And now, what we've been waiting for!" The pretty blonde shifted into a terrifying demonic visage. "Wish granted!"

* * *

**Note**: Inspired by a challenge. If a vengeance demon from Buffy the Vampire Slayer came to Harry, what would he do? The short story I saw summarized the challenge, so that's all I know. However, the expectation seemed to be that Harry would come off all noble and protect the innocent widdle children from the bad ol' demon. Mmmmmmnope!

Oh, and this was a different "Power of VD" than in my story "Unfortunately Unbreakable". That one didn't rely on a _deus ex machina_ to cause or solve problems, but rather a _deus ex crotchrot_ used ruthlessly to solve problems.


End file.
